Done But in Thought to Your Beauty
by madasmonty
Summary: On occasion, Jim dreamed about killing Sherlock with kisses. Rated for violence and dark themes.


"_Cold and clear-cut face, why come you so cruelly  
__Breaking a slumber in which all spleenful folly was drown'd  
__Pale with the golden beam of an eyelash dead on the cheek,  
__Passionless, pale, cold face, star-sweet on a gloom profound  
__Womanlike, taking revenge too deep for a transient wrong  
__Done but in thought to your beauty, and ever as pale as before"_

**– "_Maud", Tennyson_**

* * *

On occasion, Jim dreamed about killing Sherlock with kisses.

He would straddle the other man's waist, pinning his arms down with his knees, and smile toothily. The knife would be grinning with him, behind his back; laughing.

"So it's going to be a common rape, is it?"

"Perhaps."

"Honestly, Jim, I'm disappointed in you."

"Are you?"

"Yes: it's so _ordinary."_

"That's a shame."

Then he would slip the knife into Sherlock's mouth, taking care to scrape it against his teeth, and press the flat of it down on his tongue.

Sherlock would scream with his pupils, unable to talk. Jim, don't. You don't want to do this.

Oh, but he would. He would want to very much.

He would twist the hilt in his hand. His gaze would never leave the detective's – they both would know what was going to happen. Even as the tip of the blade pierced the flesh of his tongue and gently dragged a red line down. Even as his tongue split open and beads of blood welled up into fountains. They didn't look away.

Quickly Jim would swing his leg over Sherlock and help him into a sitting position so that he didn't choke on his own blood. He would mutter _there, there _and smile. He would watch the streams of liquid ruby spray onto the carpet with each body-convulsing cough as Sherlock tried to expel the blood from his mouth. But with each cough, so more blood would come.

Jim would not care that it was staining his carpet: it would be Sherlock's blood. It would be the darkest, thickest, most reflective thing he had ever seen. Beautiful.

He would reach out and dip the tip of his finger into it as the other man reeled away, shuddering with the excursion of his coughing fit. He would study the whorls of his finger, filled in with the scarlet syrup, before raising his hand to his lips and tasting it. He would swallow deeply. Now a part of Sherlock would be inside him forever.

Then he would watch for a while as the detective's body, a pointless article which he always claimed was only a vessel for his mind, betrayed him. Crimson bile would dribble down his chin and pour onto the floor as he tried to vomit the blood out of his system. It would be so primal, so degrading, so humiliating, that it would be hilarious.

Finally Jim would tire of listening to the gurgling splutters of the detective, and so he would grab his shaking shoulders to stop his wracking coughs. He would turn Sherlock to face him, and press his lips onto the other man's mouth.

Tastes. Metal. Spicy. Respect. Hatred. Coins. Thick, hot, liquid would stain the inside of his lips as he forced his tongue into Sherlock's mouth and licked the inside of his cheeks, his teeth. Invading; possessing; destroying; choking.

Because Jim wouldn't stop the kiss even when he felt a new spurt of blood cover his tongue and build and build. He would hold his lips against Sherlock's and revel in the warmth of the blood that managed to escape in rivulets, dripping down. Alas, not enough to save his mouth from filling up. Building and building.

Eyes closed, Jim would taste every new explosion of blood and see nebulas of burgundy behind his eyelids. If only Sherlock knew how gorgeous his death was.

Slowly, lovingly, Jim would prise his mouth away. He would lower Sherlock's body onto the floor, tipping his head back. He would run his fingers through the detective's dark hair and massage his scalp. Breaking the first layer of skin on his head, leaving little crescent moons under his hair, stabbing into his skull with his nails.

The other man would breathe thickly as his blood ran down his throat and into his lungs. But he would not cry. Jim would be pleased for his bravery. Proud of him.

"Hush now," he would whisper into Sherlock's ear.

Bubbles of cherry would swell in between Sherlock's barely-open lips bursting and sending droplets of blood arcing across his face. Eventually the breaths would become more spaced out, more shuddering. Until the breaths stopped completely.

How ordinary, Jim would think. Such a disappointment. It would be an exotic, unique, wonderful, disappointment, but a disappointment all the same. In the end, Sherlock would die like everyone else. Not special enough to fight the inevitable pull of the Grim Reaper.

Yes: sometimes, Jim dreamed.


End file.
